


An Unexpected Quarrel

by KChan88



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-15 01:13:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3432593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bahorel meets Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac in a cafe one Saturday evening, gets involved in an unexpected brawl, and somehow, finds himself with three new friends. Canon Era.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Unexpected Quarrel

Bahorel went into the cafe looking for spirits, a good time, and if he was lucky, some quality conversation. He wasn’t making political contacts tonight, wasn’t speaking in whispers in a back room away from over eager ears and prying eyes. He had a headache and was in need of a few laughs over a drink.

To say the least, he wasn’t expecting to get into a brawl, much as he often enjoyed a quarrel.

And he certainly hadn’t counted on making new friends within the  _midst_  of said brawl.

As it was, by the end of the night, Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and himself each sported bruises of various kinds as they walked through the darkened streets of Paris.

 

The place was as crowded as expected on a Saturday evening, but being taller and broader than most, Bahorel easily nudges his way through the crowd and is soon in possession of a glass of whisky. He turns to head toward a group of acquaintances he’s spotted in the corner when he hears his name echo cheerfully through the air.

“Bahorel!”

He turns, seeing a familiar mop of stylish brown curls and a gregarious smile greeting him.

“Courfeyrac,” he says, surprised as he claps the other man on the shoulder. “Didn’t see you there.”

“I’m going to choose not to be offended by that,” Courfeyrac says, grinning. “I know you probably have lots of people here you could spend your evening with, popular as you are, but do me a kindness and come meet my friends, would you? I was just talking about you, coincidentally.”

Bahorel nods, chuckling and returning the smile. He’d met Courfeyrac a few weeks ago outside the law school, on a rare day when Bahorel had actually attended class. It was more due to the fact that the particular professor was one he loved to prod and annoy with references to republican politics than a desire to actually attend, and Courfeyrac had apparently appreciated his efforts.

“Haven’t seen you in class the last few sessions,” Courfeyrac says, careful not to slosh his wine even as he’s bumped into by others.

“Ah, you know my motto my friend,” Bahorel says. “Never a lawyer.”

“Yet you are enrolled in the area of legal studies,” Courfeyrac teases as they reach a pair of young men who can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen. The blond one looks familiar, and Bahorel suspects he’s seen the lad before, because his face is a hard one to forget.

“For my amusement and the education of my professors,” Bahorel replies with a wink before turning back toward the blond, who is eyeing him with mild curiosity. “Enjolras, isn’t it?”

“You…know me?” Enjolras answers, bewildered, and affirming Bahorel’s suspicion, his eyes inevitably landing on Bahorel’s bright orange and red striped waistcoat. 

“I’ve seen you before,” Bahorel says. “And heard about you. It’s difficult to forget a man who everyone says looks something akin to a Greek deity and who I’m quite sure every woman in Paris fawns over.”

Pink tints Enjolras’ cheeks, and he purses his lips slightly, but his eyes stay on Bahorel.

“That’s not all I’ve heard though,” Bahorel continues, cheeky, not missing the half embarrassed, half annoyed expression. “Heard you very gracefully and logically dismantled my least favorite law professor’s argument to the point where he was essentially forced to agree with you. Almost convinced him, even, so much was your passion. And you didn’t even raise your voice.”

“That’s…true,” Enjolras replies, eyes narrowing not in anger, but in intrigue.

“Though you might not want to be quite so open about your politics like that,” Bahorel says, watching Enjolras’ face. “If you want to get things done and stay out of prison. It’s an art, that.”

“From what Courfeyrac mentioned about you,” Enjolras says, looking a bit affronted, but there is also the hint of a smile on his face. “You are quite open about yours with anyone who will listen.”

“Well, no one should behave like me,” Bahorel says, taking a swig of his drink. “As my mistress says, I was shaped from the clay of the devil himself.  And I do have  _some_ discretion. ”

Enjolras raises his eyebrows, and Courfeyrac laughs, taking another sip of his wine.

“Well, as you two seem to have introduced yourselves, Bahorel, this other fine fellow is Combeferre. Medical student and the single smartest person I’ve yet met.”

Combeferre fondly rolls his eyes, turning to Bahorel.

“A pleasure to put a face to name,” he says, pushing his spectacles up his nose. “Courfeyrac has been speaking for weeks about introducing us, and here you are by chance.”

“For weeks?” Bahorel asks, turning to Courfeyrac in question. “For something specific?”

Courfeyrac looks around them, lowering his voice.

“It was Enjolras’ thought,” he says, leaning in closer toward the other three. “To start a society of like-minded republican men such as ourselves. To take some action.”

Bahorel looks up at Enjolras again, and despite his youth, there is an intensity within those blue eyes that Bahorel suspects cannot be matched.

“We have a few interested already,” Enjolras says, a whispered passion reverberating in his voice. “And Courfeyrac thought you might also be counted among them. We hear you have connections with other such societies in Paris.”

“What types of men are interested?” Bahorel questions, serious now. “Trustworthy? Because if not, well, I did just mention prison.”

“Quite trustworthy,” Combeferre chimes in, matching the whispering tone. “My fellow medical student, Joly, and his friend Lesgle. Excellent men, both.”

“I know of Lesgle,” Bahorel cuts in. “Bit of a perpetual law student himself.”

“Yes,” Combeferre says, smiling. “There is also our friend Jean Prouvaire, another student, as well as an incredibly knowledgeable working man, Feuilly. That is who we have so far. A bit of an inner circle, if you will, which we hope to build upon.”

Bahorel is about to reply when they’re interrupted by a voice he’s familiar with, the voice of a law student he’s argued with countless times, who just so happens to be an ardent royalist.

“Bahorel,” Arnaud says, a smirk in his voice that Bahorel sees manifesting on the other man’s face when he turns around. “What company you keep.” His eyes flicker to Enjolras, whose expression immediately goes sour, and Bahorel suspects that Arnaud was in the class where Enjolras argued with the professor.

“What of it, Arnaud?” Bahorel asks, annoyed. “Don’t you have some sort of pandering to do to your professors? Because your intelligence and your father’s money may not be enough to pass your exams.”

“I just thought even you might know better than to be seen with  _him_ ,” Arnaud says, ignoring the swipe and pointing at Enjolras.

Bahorel glances back at Enjolras, whose face is a mix of shock and building anger, Courfeyrac, who is beginning to look murderous, and Combeferre, whose eyes have narrowed dangerously.

“And what, pray tell, is wrong with Enjolras?” Bahorel asks, a clear note of warning in his voice.

“Well  _everyone’s_  talking about him,” Arnaud says, a wicked smile on his face. “The man with a woman’s face who worships bloodthirsty men who did nothing but chop the heads off anyone who disagreed with them? Who wants to let the filthy rabble run things? Who, might I ask, would ever take  _him_  seriously?”

Bahorel is about to spew forth a few choice words, but then there is a delicate but clearly powerful fist swinging forward, connecting directly with Arnaud’s nose. Arnaud might be broader, but Enjolras is taller with longer arms and plenty of power behind the punch, and so the former goes crashing down to the floor.

After that, chaos lets loose.

In a tangle of arms Bahorel initially has trouble making out, Courfeyrac has gone after Arnaud as well, and one of Arnaud’s friends goes after Combeferre, who clearly does not know how to punch and so makes fairly good use of his feet and his own height. Bahorel reaches into the fray, still feeling a bit like he’s entered an alternate reality because it is not, in fact, him who started the brawl. Another of Arnaud’s friends makes to swing at him, but Bahorel has him on the ground before he can even complete the thought. Bahorel grabs the back of Enjolras’ jacket, receiving an accidental elbow to the face for his trouble before Enjolras takes notice of who actually has hold of him.

“You pathetic boarding school bully,” Bahorel spits out at Arnaud, still keeping hold of Enjolras’ jacket, though Enjolras, seemingly realizing himself, has ceased fighting him or trying to esape his clutches. Combeferre, meanwhile, having escaped the clutches of Arnaud’s friend, has a tentative hold on Courfeyrac, who looks supremely ready to keep going.

“Republican scum,” Arnaud shoots back, wiping away at his bloodied lip. “Watch your back in class, Enjolras.”

Boarding school bully or not, it is the four of them who get kicked out of the café for “starting” the fight: Enjolras has a bloodied lip and a black eye, Courfeyrac a bloody nose, Combeferre a bruise on his cheek, and Bahorel himself a sore jaw from Enjolras’ elbow.

“My rooms are near here,” Bahorel says, looking at the three younger men with of exasperation and fondness. “We can go there, get cleaned up, and talk more about this society of yours.”

There’s a moment of quiet before Enjolras speaks up.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he says, soft but clearly not completely full of regret. “I’ve been involved in one or two physical confrontations in my boarding school days, but I never started one. Not a physical one, anyway. Maybe a few verbal ones, if I saw someone being mistreated or what not. Or someone simply was ridiculously wrong. I’ve learned to channel my anger since then, choose my battles, but…” he trails off, making an unsure gesture with his hand.

“You didn’t start that one,” Bahorel says, firm. “He did. By saying what he said. He had no right.”

“I didn’t want to punch him until he insulted the revolution,” Enjolras mutters, and Bahorel sees Combeferre and Courfeyrac smile almost in sync. “I don’t care that he told me I had a woman’s face. That’s not an insult to me, nor does it hurt my masculine ego or what not, as I’m sure he intended.” He stops for a second, looking at Bahorel, and in that moment, to Bahorel’s eyes, he looks almost painfully young and yet as if he has lived a thousand lives all at once . “I’m also rather used to being teased by men like him about my appearance. It wouldn’t be the first time.” The last bit is more of a mutter than the usual crisp tones, and Bahorel doesn’t miss it, the fact that Enjolras is clearly concerned people only look at him for his appearance rather than listening to his words.

“Men like him should keep their mouths shut,” Courfeyrac grumbles, poking the skin around his eye.

“Indeed they should,” Combeferre agrees, taking in Enjolras injuries with his eyes. “What a complete ass.”

“I didn’t see his argument changing any professor’s mind like yours did,” Bahorel says, sensing the part of the insult that truly bothered Enjolras underneath the surface. “I think he’s the one who won’t be getting taken seriously.”

Enjolras’ lip curves up in an appreciative half smile, trust brimming in his eyes.

“In any case, you’ve got quite a punch on you,” Bahorel says. “But it could use some refining. What do you say to some Savate lessons?”

Enjolras tilts his head, considering for a moment.

“I accept,” he says after a few seconds, nodding his head. “Do you mind if Combeferre and Courfeyrac come along?”

“Certainly not,” Bahorel says, amused at just how apprehensive Combeferre looks at this idea in contrast to Courfeyrac’s eagerness. “I recently met another man, Grantaire, who’s quite apt, and I suspect if I promise him a bottle of wine, he might be willing to assist. We’ll have you trained up in something other than your aristocratic  _fencing_  soon enough.”

For the first time all evening, Enjolras smiles wide at Bahorel’s good-natured jab. Bahorel swings an arm around Enjolras’ shoulder, and despite the strangeness of the evening, senses he’s just cemented three new friendships, and perhaps, found a man, possibly an entire group, who just might become historic.


End file.
